


Blank Canvas

by UltimateFandomTrash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Torture, I've never written so much torture before, Lucifer is REALLY creative, M/M, One-Shot, Sam Winchester in Lucifer's Cage, They're Not, and he thinks knives are a suitable writing utensil, cage fic, there's a LOT of torture, torture torture torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/UltimateFandomTrash
Summary: Lucifer's creativity when it comes to torture knows no bounds, and he yet again comes up with some new way to torment Sam. Even within the Cage Sam is reminded of what he truly is.





	Blank Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Samifer story that just happened without me really trying. I just have too much fun with them. And yes, this is just torture with no plot. It's like when there's smut with no plot, but instead of pleasure there's pain. Mwahahaha! Also, knowing that Sam was in the Cage for 180 years is just something that's too tempting not to explore.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic (and I mean _graphic_ ) depictions of torture, nudity, and mentions of rape.

Lucifer seemed to have something new in mind today. It wasn’t the restraints that gave it away. They were the typical chains that Sam had grown used to, and the position was now familiar as well; his limbs stretched out as he hung from the top of the Cage. Sam couldn’t necessarily pinpoint what it was that told him today would be rather different than what he’d already experienced at the Devil’s hands. It was just a feeling, a fearful quivering of his stomach.

Normally Lucifer liked to make it so Sam could see him, which was as humiliating as it was frightening, but now, he was behind Sam, and the younger Winchester couldn’t help but find that infinitely more terrifying. Not seeing the Devil made him realize that he preferred when he knew what he was up to. After already going through so much torture the things Sam’s imagination came up with were horrific, and Lucifer surely knew that.

As Lucifer slowly trailed a hand down Sam’s back, the muscles actually receding from his touch of their own accord in uncomfortable spasms, his imagination went to work. He was going to rape him again, he was going to rip the skin from the backs of his thighs, he was going to shatter his shoulder blades, he was going to whip him till his skin hung off of him in strips, he was going to hammer nails into his back, he was going to carve obscene things into his skin, he was going to bite him and mark him as his, he was going to find a way to rip out his spine, he was going to tear out his muscles one by one, he was going to expose all his nerves and then caress the endings, he was going to drive spikes into his spinal chord, he was going to…

On and on his mind went. His imagination fueled his fear, and his blood pumped hotly through him, making him lightheaded.

A shiver ran through him as Lucifer began to run both hands along his back, his grip firm.

“What are you going to do to me this time?” Sam asked, surprised he’d worked up the courage to do so.

“Sh…” Lucifer cooed. “Just let me enjoy this.”

“Enjoy what? My back? It’s just a back. Calm down.”

That earned him a stinging spank to the right cheek of his ass and he yelped, his body attempting to jerk away from his tormentor. For a quick second he gripped him, diggings his nails in, and the sharp pain caused a treacherous flare of arousal to shoot through his body, and an undignified whimper climbed up his throat. Then, the Devil got real close, his cold skin rubbing horridly against his own as his arms wrapped around him.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he breathed.

And then, for no reason other than he could, Lucifer nipped at his ear, releasing a playful growl that sent painful sparks of anxiety throughout Sam. He tilted his head away from him, despite knowing that such an action would please Satan. He’d told him that he always loved it when his victims struggled. But Sam didn’t care. It was bad enough that his body gave into him when he was all hot and needy, so willingly submitting to him, or deciding to not react, weren’t things that were going to happen.

Sam wasn’t sure where this courageous streak bubbled up from inside of him, but he said, “You know, school dress codes are so strict because of people like you. You see a bit of someone’s skin and can’t even control yourself.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam’s stomach seemed to coil in on itself. So maybe it hadn’t been courage. Even though Lucifer hadn’t retaliated just yet Sam was starting to see the stupidity of what he’d just done.

But no retaliation came, which might have been more frightening, because it didn’t make sense to him.

“What can I say, Sammy?” the Devil asked him calmly. “It’s true. I can’t control myself around you. And why should I? _You belong to me._ ”

That last sentence he’d said in a deep voice that sent shivers throughout Sam. And now Satan’s abhorrent, forked tongue was running up the length of his spine, perfectly following the curve of his back. In the wake of sensations that erupted in him, all Sam could do was tilt his head back, and pant, his low voice leaking into his breaths.

There wasn’t any reason to argue against what the Devil had said. In a way, he was right. This was _his_ prison, he was _his_ vessel. He existed for the sole purpose of belonging to Lucifer. Oh god, such a thought sickened him, twisting his stomach. Anger, and despair, and hatred swept through him in a violent rush, making his blood run hot.

A delighted laugh left the Devil, and Sam just knew it was because he’d somehow sensed the way his emotions had caused his body to heat up. He ran his pointer finger down his spin, causing Sam to shiver.

“You look so scrumptious like this,” he commented. “Naked, vulnerable, afraid. And I adore that in Hell that those getting tortured don’t receive scars. I would hate to see your skin marred day after day. The way you look now… _oh_ , the things it does to me. It’s basically like getting a fresh canvas every day.” Lucifer began to slowly walk his fingers up his back, Sam’s muscles trembling in his wake. “And what a lovely canvas it is. I can make you feel absolutely anything I want.”

“Then stop playing around and get on with it,” Sam got out through gritted teeth.

“But where’s the fun in that?” Lucifer asked. He removed his hands from him, and Sam’s heartbeat sped up, unsure of what was going to happen to him next. “Look at you, all quivering and terrified. I can scare you without even touching you. Feeling this powerful is just… _mm_ , it’s something else. It really is.” Then, he paused as if something had occurred to him. “You know, it’s actually a wonder I’m not turned on. Ah, oh well. This feeling is just about as good as sex.” He clapped his hands together excitedly before proclaiming, “Let’s begin!”

Sam’s stomach lurched at that, he heard the snap of the Devil’s fingers, and then the cold blade of a knife was touching his skin. The way Lucifer ran it almost lovingly along his back, as if he was using it to caress him, made it difficult to breathe. The promise of pain that it brought was nearly enough to stop his heart.

And then, up and up the blade went, stopping to rest against the top of his left shoulder blade. With a searing flash of pain, Lucifer dug it into him. He sawed at his muscles like he was cutting into a tough piece of raw meat, and all Sam could do was scream. Blood was already running down him in fierce torrents, trailing along his legs and feet before dripping to the bottom rungs of the Cage.

He kept cutting him, deeper and deeper, the sensations traveling lower and lower down the left side of his back. Something was horribly wrong. He could feel it. Sam’s body was tense and limp all at once, not able to properly react to the agony he was in. It was just too much. And he feared that if he tried pulling away, something absolutely dreadful would happen, couldn’t even really make sense of what was being done to him.

Fiery sensation and aching pressure alighted his nerves in a violent, unending rush, continually growing worse. And then, he felt something, a disconnect of some sort, and he was bombarded by a strange coldness he couldn’t make sense of.

Then, to his absolute horror, there was a stomach churning sound – a heavy, wet slop – as something dropped to the bottom part of the Cage. Sam didn’t understand what could’ve possibly happened to him, and he was mired too deeply within the throes of agony – his mind clouded, yet panicked – to even try.

“Beautiful,” Lucifer commented. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He started dry heaving, his head and stomach whirling and hurting in distress. The powerful, sudden motions alit a new kind of torment in him as his body involuntarily jerked at the unforgiving chains that restrained him. When Lucifer began cutting into the right side of him, he coughed up blood, tried to scream, and started choking on the bright red liquid coming up in his mouth.

If only this would cause him to die. If only all of this would end. Sam thought that by now he would’ve grown used to the torture, but it was always different. Lucifer’s twisted, demented imagination was unending. He thought it might’ve been years since he’d become locked in here, yet he’d never experienced the same kind of torture twice. Some sessions were quite similar to others, of course, but never strictly the same. Sam didn’t count the rape in that because that was a different kind of torture in and of itself.

He cleared the blood from his throat, and spit it out. As the pain deepened just like it had before, he squeezed his eyes shut till it hurt, and it was like he was seeing stars. Sam forgot about everything but this. There was nothing else besides the knife digging and carving into him, the blood running down the backs of his thighs. This was his existence now – this terrible, sickening torture, the sheer agony that Lucifer doled out.

Pain kept piling on top of pain, growing to an insurmountable level, and then breaching past that point. His body was shaking violently, his heart hammering away till it hurt. There were so many different sensations that assaulted Sam, and it made him feel sick. So very sick. None of this was right. But he’d expect nothing less form the Devil himself.

Like before, an awareness that something was wrong came over him, and the awful dry heaves started up again, more blood coming up in his mouth; warm, and metallic. There was cold, an awful, unnatural cold, and then, another heavy slop as something fell to the Cage floor. A sob built its way up from his chest, and reached past his lips, battling with the dry heaves for dominance. So he choked, and coughed, and cried, tears and blood dripping off of him.

The pain was like a living thing within him, taking over his entire existence, gnawing away at his mind with voracious hunger.

Lucifer’s voice reached through the storm inside him:

“Time for the finer details.”

And then the knife was cutting into him yet again, the blade having long ago turned warm from being forced into his body. There was tearing, and prying, and slicing, and ripping, and Sam couldn’t pinpoint _where_ Lucifer was hurting him. It didn’t feel like his back, even though nothing else made sense. It was deeper than that, but at the same time, on the very surface.

There was an odd scraping noise that set Sam’s teeth on edge, and it felt like a bolt of electricity ran through him. His screams – which had been leaving his throat in a savage, devastating chorus – lessened as he heaved and gasped, shock and horror running rampant through him. That’s when it hit him; the unnatural cold, the things falling to the bottom of the Cage, the strange sense of exposure he felt… Lucifer had hacked away all the muscles of his back, exposing his ribs and his shoulder blades.

If only he _wasn’t_ in the Cage because if this was getting done to him above he would’ve been dead by now. Death seemed like such a beautiful thing, and he could never have it. Not truly.

What Sam craved was the void. He wanted to feel absolutely nothing. After this, there wasn’t any other way to go on. If he somehow stopped existing, it’d be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Lucifer calmly told him, referring to accidently scraping the knife against his rib. “I don’t intend to hurt you there _just_ yet.”

Lucifer taking care of the “finer details” went on for what seemed an eternity. Sam was in too much pain to even swallow, and spit was beginning to dangle from his mouth and chin. And it was as if his entire body was limp, but rigid, but shaking. His breaths weren’t coming to him, his lungs confused as to what to do. His entire body was confused. His stomach seemed to want to curl in on itself, but the dry heaves hadn’t quite stopped, and hid body despises the extra movement, the extra suffering it brought him. He fought for air, but he couldn’t get any in, and it now felt like his voice was trapped inside him. His vocal chords tried to have some sound reach past his throat – which was already raw from his previous screams.

Then, Sam heard something; an ugly, low growl of some sort. It was awful, the sound of a distressed animal. The pitch fluctuated, and when it went higher it turned into pathetic whines and whimpers. What was making that sound?

It hit him.

He was. The sound was coming from _him_.

Sam’s face was wet with tears, and Lucifer finished up the particular part of this torture that he’d been on.

“Hm…” Satan mused. “Yep, these gotta go.”

There was a metallic clang as the knife was dropped from his hand, and then he was _touching him_ , adoringly trailing his fingers across the bones of his ribs.

“My, my, Sam, you have some grade A skeletal structure. I’ve seen a lot of bones in my existence, as I’m sure you can imagine, but yours are so nice and strong. Still, that doesn’t mean it’ll be that hard to do this.”

And then Sam found out what _this_ was. It seemed as if his very soul was screaming as Lucifer gripped his shoulder blades and then violently tore them out. It felt like his arms were about to be ripped off.

A sickening clattering noise reached his ears as Lucifer tossed the bones aside. _Sam’s_ bones. God, why did this have to go on? How could any one being possess such evil within them as to do _this_ to a person? _How?_

If only he could pass out. Granted, Sam had passed out a few times in the Cage, but that was only always for a few seconds.

Maybe he _had_ passed out and just hadn’t realized it. After all, there was nothing to differentiate between his waking moments.

Shockwaves seemed to be running through his arms, muscles tugging and pulling and collapsing, as his shoulders lost the support of his shoulder blades. It was as if a thousand knives were being stabbed into his arms and shoulders. His back was a whole other story. He felt like the very fires of Hell were licking hungrily at what remained of him.

Sam almost wished that _was_ what was happening to him. The flames would grant him a swifter end than what Lucifer surely had planned.

The knife was picked up again, and…

_Scra-a-ape._

_Scra-a-a-ape._

_Scrape._

_Scra-ape._

The pain danced madly, sadistically, it ate at him, it burrowed into him, it dug, it gnawed, it carved. Its presence was like that of an unyielding storm, a violent tornado that ripped and destroyed everything in its path, lightning that obliterated all that it hit, fire that consumed all it came in contact with.

Sam hadn’t known it was possible to suffer so much, couldn’t comprehend that it was even possible, or that it was happening to him.

Lucifer hummed “Stairway to Heaven” as he worked, seeming content with how things were going. Sam could even tell in the way he held the knife, in the way that it made contact with him, that Lucifer was excited, _very_ excited. Under different circumstances Sam would be expecting Lucifer to rape him any moment now. But he didn’t. He just kept carving and carving and _carving_.

_Scra-a-a-ape._

_Scra-ape._

_Scra-a-ape._

More cold, pressure, as Lucifer blew away what was surely bone dust. And then, he stopped, his vile presence drawing farther away. He must be admiring his work.

A pleased sigh left him. “You know, Sammy, you probably don’t appreciate art the way I do, but I definitely did a nice job with your back.” He came forward again, tracing what he’d carved into his ribs, and Sam’s whole world became that _awful_ , terrifyingly _wrong_ sensation. “Oh Sam…” Lucifer breathed out. “I think I’ve really outdone myself.”

He paused, and in that time he thankfully stopped touching him.

“Just so you can understand _why_ I’m really liking the turn out I’ll tell you what I wrote, in Enochian of course. Here,” he began, pressing down with his fingers against his topmost ribs, including where his shoulder blades used to be, “I wrote _Property of Lucifer_ , because, well… because it’s true.” He giggled, the sound so terrifying because of how innocent it seemed. Satan moved his hand lower. “Here, I wrote _Made for Each Other_. I’m sure I don’t have to explain that one to you, huh partner?” And then, his hands moved lower, and as he went on his voice was quieter, but no less delighted, “You want to know what I wrote here, Sammy? I wrote _FREAK_.” Lucifer stood on his tiptoes and whispered, “It’s because that’s what you are, and you know it. You’ve always known it, _freak_."

And that’s what broke Sam. What he’d felt about himself all his life was _now carved into his bones_ , the word truly a part of him. All the other carvings were atrocious and gut-wrenching, but nothing hurt as badly as the word _freak_. Even before the Cage, even before the rape and the torture, even before he’d learned about being Lucifer’s vessel, he’d been a freak. That’s what he’d always been, and Lucifer had just reminded him in the most excruciating way possible that that’s what he’d always be.

His torment must’ve gone on for hours because everything was beginning to grow dim in that way it did when he “died” at the end of nearly every day in Hell. That was how things worked. If tortured enough, by the end of the day he’d “die” (though he really didn’t know what exactly happened to him or his soul in that time), and then he’d be back the next morning, a clean slate (as Lucifer had put it many times), or as he’d said most recently, a blank canvas.

Black invaded the edges of his vision, and his pain began to fade into nothing. But even then, Sam couldn’t be grateful, because it’d all start again the next day. At least _freak_ wouldn’t be carved into the backs of his ribs anymore. He supposed it didn’t matter if it was or not. It’s presence didn’t make it more true, and the lack of it, didn’t erase what he was.

Sam Winchester was a freak.

_I’ll always be a freak._

And that was his last thought before nothingness took him.


End file.
